At the Queen's Command (12 page)

Owen found the disconcerted expression on Lieutenant Palmerston’s face gratifying, though he wished he’d been the cause of it. Instead of that, he had Palmerston look to him for relief, with an amused Nathaniel Woods watching.

Palmerston held his hands up. “Captain Strake, I did as you asked. I gathered all your supplies and had them done up nice and complete.” He pointed to a pile on one side of the depot floor. “But then this gentleman came in and he ruined everything.”

Owen glanced at Woods, who was standing beside a much smaller pile. “I thought, sir, we were meeting here at half past two. Did I mistake the time?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Seen you marketing with the Frost girl. Figured I’d come down here, see what was what.”

Owen looked at the two piles. The larger one contained most everything from Owen’s original list, including bolts of cloth, beads, other trade goods, some ironwork, some books, two casks of salted beef, two cases of biscuit, blankets, tack and saddles, and feed for horses.

The other pile looked tiny by comparison. Woods had pulled aside a single musket, a pistol, shot and brimstone, a sextant, a pouch with food, another with pre-rolled cartridges for the guns, a knife, a small ax, two canteens, a single blanket, and a backpack that could carry the extra shot as well as his journals, a small telescope, and a change of socks.

“Lieutenant Palmerston, would you excuse us for a moment?”

The Quartermaster quickly exited the building, closing the door behind him, but not all the way.

Owen completed the closing. “Mr. Woods, I appreciate your association with the Prince. You know your business. But, sir, I have a mission.”

Woods leaned back against the wall. “You’re to scout out where the Ryngians are and report back. And while you’re at it, you’ll make friends with the Twilight People and convince them to be fighting for the Queen when the war comes this way?”

Owen hesitated. “Did the Prince tell you that?”

“Ain’t no need.” Woods slowly shook his head. “Norillians been trying to do that thing since my pap was a boy. Now you’re thinking them blankets and that cloth will be a way to buy some good will, ain’tcha?”

“You suggest it won’t, sir?”

“Well, now, ever hear of Major Hopkins?”

“Afraid not.”

“Tain’t much of a surprise. Thirty years ago, Major Hopkins brought the Twilight People blankets tainted with the Blood Pox. Thought the Altashee would just wrap themselves up and die. Didn’t happen.”

“I was unaware of that.”

“Not many are. Know why his plan didn’t work?”

“No.”

Woods’ eyes tightened. “The Altashee ain’t idiots. The men bringing the blankets all had pox scars. The Altashee sussed out what was going on. They got them some powerful medicine magicks. You tote them blankets and they’ll figure you’re out to kill ’em.”

Owen shook his head. “They stay, then. The Twilight People, they still trade for cloth, yes?”

“Some. From a post where the cloth has been sitting around for six months or more, and where whites buy it and wear it.”

“The horse fodder?”

“Don’t need feed for horses we ain’t gonna have.”

“I see.” Owen looked from one pile to another. He had a choice to make. He could demand that Woods justify every exclusion, or he could ask
why
he’d selected the things in the small pile. The latter course would be more productive, though he itched to go through the former. It
was
his expedition, after all.

Or
is
it?

“How many rounds for each weapon?”

“Two hundred and a half for your long gun; a hundred for the pistol and seven firestones total.”

Dust motes danced in the light illuminating the small pile. “That’s twice as many firestones as needed.”

Woods shook his head. “You ever actually put a hundred shots through a firestone?”

Owen frowned. “More. They were army stones like these and rated for a hundred shots.”

“Out here we reckon the man making firestones has a brother in that there Parliament what sends him work. Got paid good for ’em, but he’s a long ways away. If one of them shatters after ten or fifteen or fifty shots, you ain’t gonna survive long enough to be a-complaining to him.”

“You’ve made your point.”

“Out there ain’t no Fire Wardens for to sell us a spare firestone or three. The rule is ‘a pinch more powder and keep your stone bright.’ That’ll put your shot where you want it.”

“Since you have rejected the foodstuffs, shall I assume we will be living off the land?”

“You can’t imagine the bounty out there, Captain.” Woods smiled and his gaze became distant. “You’ll be glad you don’t have weevil biscuits and sour beef. What we can’t kill or pick, we’ll trade for. We’ll even get you some better clothes.”

“I think not, sir.” Owen held his head up. “I am an officer of Her Majesty’s Army. I shall wear my uniform proudly.”

“Your clothes ain’t going to last.”

“It really doesn’t matter, Mr. Woods.” Owen kept his voice firm. “This mission will take us into enemy territory. If I travel out of uniform and were captured, I would be hung as a spy. I am
not
a spy. I shall not comport myself as one.”

Woods had been grinning as if he was going to laugh, but his expression sobered quickly enough. “You’re set on that?”

“I am, sir.”

“The matter is closed. I respect your conviction, sir.” Woods shook his head. “Not sure I understand it, but I ’spect that’s a piece of civilization I’m not meant to be comprehending. Will you be adding anything else to your kit?”

“I have a few personal effects. Journals. Pens.” Owen thought, then shook his head. “Unless you think there is something else. I am sure there will be room in my pack.”

Woods nodded. “I reckon we’re covered.”

“And Mr. Woods…”

“Yes, Captain Strake?”

“This
is
my expedition, isn’t it?”

“It’s all yours, sir.” Woods gave him a tiny salute. “I’m just along so’s you can find your way to the end of it.”

Chapter Twelve

May 1, 1763

St. Martin’s Cathedral, Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

O
wen found himself with the luxury of a couple of hours before the grand Sunday dinner Mrs. Frost had promised earlier in the week. Owen had joined the family at services. Bishop Othniel Bumble had held forth in a fiery sermon about duty to the Crown. After the service, the Frosts invited the Bishop, his family, and his aid, Reverend Benjamin Beecher to join them for dinner.

Owen occupied himself by organizing his journals. He decided one would be a workbook for notes and sketches while traveling. The second would be the mission journal. He would copy and organize things from the workbook to guarantee the information’s accuracy.

While this was his intent, in sitting down to practice with his metal nibs, he realized his plan would not work. The workbook observations about Mystria expanded beyond their original scope. He found himself evaluating the people and their customs. Commentary required context, so his writing became voluminous.

He found himself motivated, in part, by Lord Rivendell’s book. That Rivendell’s tome could be taken as the definitive account of Villerupt revolted him. He wanted his impressions of Mystria to educate readers about the people and their true courage.

This created problems. The assault, for example, did not paint a pretty picture of Mystrian behavior. Owen chose to write things down as plainly as he could. He hoped that his portraits of the Frosts and even Nathaniel Woods would balance any negative impressions gleaned from the actions of people like the Branches.

Owen had filled several pages with an even hand when one of the younger Frosts tapped on his door. Owen pulled on the plain coat he’d worn to church and descended. The dining table had been set up in the kitchen yard, on a green lawn.

The rotund Bishop Bumble regarded him with a flash of displeasure before a smile lit his ruddy face to the point of buffoonery. He threw his arms wide and waddled forward. “So good to see you again, Captain Strake. May I present to you my wife, Livinia, and my niece, Lilith.”

Livinia Bumble suffered in comparison to her husband and Mrs. Frost, being slight of frame and colorless to the point of appearing gray. She did make an effort at smiling, but it exhausted her. Owen would have taken her to be entirely timid, but her blue eyes remained sharp and seemed to miss nothing.

Owen bowed and kissed her proffered hand, then smiled at the other member of the Bumble party. Lilith was everything her aunt was not. Tall and flame-haired, the young woman smiled dazzlingly, fully aware of the effect. Though she wore a gown styled as simply as her aunt’s, and cut from the same cloth, her bright blue eyes and the spray of freckles across her cheeks rescued her from being drab.

Lilith curtsied as Owen took her hand. “You honor me, Captain Strake.”

Owen kissed it, then straightened. “My pleasure, Miss Bumble.”

He then offered his hand to the fourth member of the Bumble party. “Good to see you again, Reverend Beecher.”

Beecher, who looked a match for Livinia save for being taller, nodded curtly. “I see you fare better on land than on the sea.”

“Which is why I serve in Her Majesty’s Army and not the Royal Navy.” Owen shook the man’s hand firmly, resisting the temptation to crush it. Beecher had not been unkind on the ship. More than once he’d joined Owen at the heads, vomiting over the side.

Mrs. Frost called them all to dinner. The Bishop sat at Dr. Frost’s right hand, in the space Caleb would have occupied had he been present. Owen sat on the left, with Lilith at his side and Bethany opposite her. Beecher sat at Bethany’s right. The children ranged between the young adults and the end of the table where the two matriarchs sat.

The meal consisted of three courses. It began with a fish chowder containing maize and potatoes in a milk broth. Onions and pepper had been added, the latter in a profligate quantity. Owen’s throat closed with the first spoonful, but eased after a little wine.

The Bishop noticed. “You will find, Captain, that spices are not as dear here as they are in Norisle. We tend to demonstrate our fortune with their overuse.”

Doctor Frost snorted. “And we drink very expensive wine to wash spice away.”

“Praise God you can afford it, yes, Archibald.”

“Quite, Othniel. To your health, Captain.”

A steaming haunch of beef came next. Doctor Frost carved, offering a small lecture on the primacy of red meat as he cut. The Bishop got the King’s cut, but the slice that ended up on Owen’s plate nearly matched it. The cuts got progressively smaller, save for the last two, which went to Hettie and Livinia.

Bowls brimming with green beans and squash circulated. Never having had the latter, Owen watched how much others took. Butter and more pepper had been used in the squash, so when it came his turn, he served himself a conservative portion. His first taste, however, pleased him so much he kept an eye on the bowl in case there was any left over.

Conversation remained light during the meal. Owen had once been told that a gentleman “is neither a bore nor seated next to one at dinner.” Doctor Frost’s comments ranged on subjects far and wide, while Lilith remained coquettish and flattering. Owen did his best to cope with each, offering a couple of stories of his time fighting on the Continent. For the most part, however, he kept quiet.

This was not entirely out of manners. Bethany, though she smiled at both men on either side of her, did not appear to be her lively self. From what Owen could overhear, Beecher’s attempts at conversation consisted of repeating selections from the great sermons. His delivery would have taxed the patience of a stone.

Bishop Bumble did not speak much to Bethany, save for a few mumbled comments during Owen’s tales. Bethany reacted stiffly to the comments. Color drained from her face and she chewed mechanically for a time after that. Though she recovered enough to laugh politely at Owen’s stories, Bumble clearly had upset her.

To the delight of the children, a pudding with berries and raisins finished the meal. They were served first, then the women excused themselves and herded the youngsters away. Beecher slid down into Bethany’s chair—uttering a sigh Owen would have preferred not to have heard.

Doctor Frost poured a small cut-crystal glass of sherry for each man, then hoisted his in the air. “To the Queen’s health.”

Owen quaffed the sweet wine. It burned all the way down, but gently, at least to his throat. Beecher appeared to have more difficulty with it, much to the silent amusement of the two older gentlemen.

The Bishop refilled their glasses, then set the bottle in the center of the table. “Captain Strake, I would ask you a question.”

“Please, sir.”

“Are you not proud of your service?” The question came in a voice that was nine-tenths innocent. “Neither here nor to church did you wear your uniform.”

“I am very proud of my service.” Owen met the old man’s dark stare openly. “I feared that the bright coat, the gold braid, would seem ostentatious and arrogant on the Lord’s Day. I didn’t wish to disrupt your service.”

“I wish you had.” Bumble picked up his glass and slowly spun it. Sunlight sparked rainbows. “I would have bid you come forward and sit in the front so my flock could see a proud officer of Her Majesty’s Army. Too many people here are given cause to think poorly of our government. Colonel Langford and others set a frightful example.”

Archibald Frost smiled. “I think, Othniel, you judge the people of Temperance harshly.”

“I wish I could agree with you, Archibald, but the fact is that our people have lost their way. They have forgotten that we are all children of God, and that He has established an order to the Universe. We are to serve His purpose, and His purpose is clear. Our monarch is His ordained representative on this Earth. We believe that because He has granted us the bounty of this continent, we are somehow superior to the men of Norisle. A ridiculous proposition, wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”

“I am not a theologian, sir. I pray to shoot better and faster than my enemy.”